Urban Fantasy Collection - Vampires (13 page)

Headlights pierce the night. She sticks out her shoe instead of her thumb, cocking her weight onto one hip and smiling. The car pulls over, tires crunching on gravel, the muffler streaming a plume of exhaust, the heady smell of gasoline in the air.

She wobbles as she tries to put her shoe back on. She hops backward before sprawling onto her ass. She throws her head back and laughs. Good thing she isn't walking the line for a cop. Another point in her favor. She draws another imaginary line in the air. Slipping off her other shoe, she climbs to her feet, stumbling only a little. She's brushing the dirt off her hind end when the driver's door opens.

A man slips out of the purring car. Something gleams in his hand.

Dante stood in the doorway, hands braced against either side of the threshold. Wallace—
Heather
—slept slumped in the easy chair, her head turned to the left. Her red hair tumbled across her cheek, edged her half-parted lips. Her breathing was slow and easy. Candlelight flickered orange and gold across her face.

Beautiful, he thought. Easy to forget she was a cop.

He padded barefoot into the front room. Scooping a folded blanket up from the back of the empty sofa, he shook it out, then spread it over her. His bracelets clinked against each other with the movement, but she didn't stir.

Dante sat cross-legged in front of the chair. She'd stood up for him—in front of other cops. Had even tackled the chicken-shit bastard with the gun.
Why would she stand up for me? What gives?
He breathed in her fresh rain scent, detecting a hint of lilac and sage laced beneath. He listened to the deep, steady beat of her heart.

Asleep, she looked even younger than the twenty-eight or thirty years he pegged her at. Asleep, curled and warm, she wasn't a cop or an FBI agent, but a woman with heart; a woman with steel for a spine. A woman, so far, true to her word.

Trust me. I'm asking you to trust me.

How many times had he heard those words? Spoken by mortals and nightkind alike, the words empty, void:
Trust me
.

But not with Heather. He'd looked into her and she'd met his gaze, her own open and steady, hiding nothing. For a moment, as he'd looked into her blue eyes, the voices raging inside had hushed.

And so he'd put his hands behind his back and let her handcuff him.

The ceiling creaked. Lucien stirred on his rooftop perch, watching the night. Listening to a rhythm that Dante heard at times, felt it pulsing in sync with the blood in his veins.

Heather shifted in the chair, a slight frown on her lips. Her heart rate picked up speed. Bad dream? Rising to his knees, Dante leaned in and brushed her hair back from her face. Adrenaline spiked her scent. Her brows drew together, face troubled, maybe scared. Beads of sweat sprang up along her hairline.

“Heather.” Dante gently shook her shoulder. “Heather, wake up.”

She jerked awake, eyes wide. She sat bolt upright, knocking Dante's hand aside, the blanket sliding from her lap and puddling on the floor. She brought up both hands together as though she held her gun.

“Don't,” she whispered. “Don't get in the car….”

“Hey,” Dante said. “It's okay.”

At the sound of his voice, Heather shuddered, then leaned forward, elbows to knees, head to hands. She drew in a long breath. The frantic pounding of her heart gradually slowed.

After a moment, she lowered her hands. Her face was night-kind-white, her eyes dilated and rimmed with brilliant blue.

“T'est blême comme un mort.”
Dante said. “Nightmare?”

Heather glanced at him. Her heart double-thumped. Her breath caught in her throat. Dante tensed, his fingers curving in toward his palms. He almost looked away, not wanting to see the frustrating mix of adoration, lust, and wonder that lit the eyes of most who looked at him. But she held his gaze, her heart calming, her breathing evening out. She looked
in
.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Nightmare.”

“I know about nightmares.”

Heather tilted her head and looked at him intently. “I bet you do,” she said. “How's your head?” She touched a finger to her own temple.

“I'm good,” he murmured, shrugging.

Heather glanced about the room, her gaze stopping at the sofa. “Where is he?” she said, jumping to her feet.

“Peeping Tom's perv assistant?” Dante asked, looking up at her. She nodded. “He was gone when I came downstairs.”

“So are his things,” she said. “The stuff you took from his pockets.”

Heather searched the chair she'd been sleeping in, sliding her hands between the cushion and the chair, kneeling to look underneath. “So's his cell phone,” she said, pushing her hair back from her face. Color flushed her cheeks. “I had it on the arm of the chair.”

Dante caught her meaning. “So he stood over you while you slept.”

Lips pressed together, Heather nodded. Frustration and renewed weariness tightened her face. “I was going to recommend that he find a less sleazy boss, but…”

“
Bon à rien
, both of 'em,” Dante said, standing. “A perfect match.”

Heather smiled, then it faded from her lips. Her mind was unshielded, wide open, and he could go in and snag every single thought—if he wanted.

But if someone were to go into
his
mind unwelcomed—force their way in or seduce their way in—and take what
they
wanted…he tensed. He had no desire to look into Heather's unguarded mind.

“I need to talk to you,” she said. “Can we go somewhere private?”

Dante nodded. “Sure.”

“Looks like you're recovering from that cooperation problem.”

He snorted. “Keep thinking that.”

She smiled again.

Dante led Heather out of the front room and down the hall to his studio. Just as he opened the door, Trey rushed out of the web room, goggles swinging from his hand. He stopped in front of Dante, reeking of adrenaline.

Sudden fear spiked into Dante when he saw the look on Trey's face.

“Bad news,
mon ami
,” Trey said, his voice even more Cajun-spiced than his sister's. “They pulled Jay from the river. Throat slit.”

Dante leaned against the wall, stunned. “Fuck,” he whispered.

“That's not all,” Trey said. He hesitated, his gaze on Dante, his mind fluttering against Dante's shields.

“I'm okay,” Dante said.

Trey nodded, but he looked unhappy. He swallowed. “The cops think you're good for both murders.”

H
EATHER STEPPED BACK WHEN
Dante, dark eyes blazing, whirled and punched his fist through the wall. Plaster and dry-wall tumbled to the floor in chunks and ragged pieces.

“Did you hack into the NOPD's system?” she asked Trey.

He shrugged, then nodded.
“Oui.”

Like she'd been conjured, Simone suddenly appeared beside her brother, her troubled gaze on Dante. Above them all, the ceiling creaked and groaned, then fell silent. Heather heard what sounded like the powerful rush of wings. Very large wings.

She looked at Dante. He stood motionless, every muscle taut, his fist still inside the hole he'd punched, his other hand braced against the wall. Head bowed, face veiled by his black hair, he seemed to vibrate with rage.

“I'm sorry about Jay.” Heather touched his shoulder. “They've got nothing. You didn't do it. And they know it. That's what I want to talk to you about.”

A blizzard of plaster fell to the floor when Dante pulled his fist free of the wall. Lifting his head and tossing back his hair, he looked at her. Fury and anguish mingled within his dark eyes. His muscles flexed beneath her fingers. She stared into his eyes, unable to look away, drawn in and sucked down, caught in a whirlpool of emotion.

Dante looked
into
her, his dark gleaming gaze as warm as a wanted caress. Releasing him, she looked down, face burning.

“Then talk to me,” he said.

The front door opened, then clicked shut. De Noir. “Alone,” Heather said, stepping into the room he'd led her to. Dante followed, closing the door behind him.

Heather's gaze skipped around the room—
studio
, she amended. Several different keyboards, a synthesizer, a mixing board, amps, computer, and monitor crowded the space. A black guitar was propped in one corner. A half-empty bottle of French absinthe stood on the computer table surrounded by headphones, scattered papers, and lyric sheets.

Her gaze fixed on the opposite wall. Spray-painted on the wall in the color of dried blood was the anarchy symbol.

The image of the symbol scorched into Daniel Spurrell's flesh flared to life in Heather's mind. The killer—whether it was the CCK or not—was trying to prove that he and Dante were kindred souls sharing the same beliefs. But instead of painting the symbol on walls, buildings or squad cars, the killer etched it into unwilling flesh.

Gina's murder was meant as a slap in the face to Dante. A challenge.
Look how far I'm willing to go. Can you top this? Have you got the guts to live up to that symbol?
If the killer now felt
superior
to Dante, if he felt like
he
was in control, then it meant he'd also feel comfortable enough—strong enough—to claim Dante and make him his own.

But, if he was dead…then, no threat. Wrenching her gaze away from the wall, Heather glanced at her watch. 4:34 a.m. Pushing her hair back from her face, she turned to face Dante.

“I found out a few hours ago that our suspect's been killed in Pensacola,” she said. “I don't understand it, but—”

“You don't think it's him, do you?”

“I'm on my way to Florida to find out.”

Dante stepped past Heather, his body brushing against hers. “You don't know what he looks like,” Dante said, picking up a pair of shades from the computer console. He slid them on. “How will—”

“I've studied his…
work
…for three years,” she said. “I'll know.”

Dante stepped closer. “Is
that
what you dream of?”

Caught off guard, Heather looked away.
Too close.
Way
too close.
Lifting her head, she met Dante's shaded gaze. “What does that anarchy symbol mean to you?”

Dante shrugged. “Besides a general ‘fuck you' to society?”

Heather shook her head. “You can do better than that.”

Dante lifted his shades. Streaks of red slashed his dark irises. His gaze, intense, direct, and dead serious, locked with hers. “Okay then. Rage. Firestorm. Truth.”

“Truth?”

“Yeah. Freedom is the result of rage.”

Heather stared at him, throat tight. Spoken like a true survivor of any state-run foster home system. Spoken with intelligence and conviction. And that planted a seed of doubt in her belly.

What had created that rage? Fueled it?

Dante lowered the shades back over his eyes. “So now what?”

She sighed, trailing a hand through her hair. “I want you to play it safe until you hear from me.”

A smile quirked up one corner of Dante's mouth. “That'd be a first.”

“Try,” Heather said. “I'd like you to keep breathing.” Her gaze shifted to the anarchy symbol behind him. For one heartbeat, he was a part of the symbol—a sharp black dagger piercing the heart of chaos, night-wrapped and unpredictable.

No way the killer would've left New Orleans without Dante dead or beside him. Whoever lay on that tray in the Pensacola morgue wasn't her perp. But she had to be sure. Collins would be expecting her at the airport and she still had to stop at her hotel.

“Walk with me,” she said, turning and opening the studio door.

She felt Dante behind her in the hall; his silence unnerved her, even with bare feet and carpet, he should've made
some
sound.

“What happens if it ain't your guy in Pensacola?”

“Then I'll be back.”

H
EATHER UNLOCKED THE
S
UBARU
, then slid inside. Starting the engine, she turned the defroster and heater up to high. Dante stood beside the open driver's side window, barefoot in the late-February chill, sunglasses perched on top his head.

He's got to be cold
. Heather thought.
I know I'd be freezing.

“I'll call you as soon as I know something,” she said.